Fairy Tales
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot, prompt-fill. Post-Reichenbach Sherlock has been on the move, rarely seen by the two who know he is alive. When he stumbles into Molly's flat one evening, bruised and battered from an adventure, she saves him in a way no one ever expected.


A/N: I wrote this in response to a Sherlolly prompt I received on tumblr. The prompt was: **My prompt for you: Molly Hooper (real name Mary-Kathryn Morgenstern) is the niece of the really powerful Alexandre Morgenstern, who has the Russian and Germanish goverments wrapped around his little finger (just like Mycroft in the UK).But, after her parents died (her mother, Elizabeth, close to her tenth birthday, killed), she faked her dead, to evade her grandfather's legacy. After TRF, Sherlock finds out 'cause she uses her real name to protect him from some enemies and her grandaddy appears. **This was a really challenging piece to write because it had so much detail and there were so many possible scenarios that could come out of it. Nevertheless, I am grateful for the push it gave me to write outside my comfort zone and to challenge my imagination. I hope I've done an okay job with this and that everyone can find something to enjoy. x

* * *

**Fairy Tales**

After about a year, rumours surrounding Sherlock's death eventually laid themselves to rest. People moved on, the tabloids latched on to juicier things and the interest simply waned. In that time, only two people harboured the truth behind his death, if one could call it that. Sherlock was far from dead and only his brother and pathologist knew. However, they rarely saw much of him. He had fled London, travelling around England and across the rest of Europe armed with several smart disguises and, thanks to his brother, enough counterfeit paperwork and identification to last him fifty lifetimes.

Though his appearances were rare, Molly remembered every single one of them. Her flat had become a sort of sanctuary for him, whether he was aware of it or not. Right after the fall, he had camped in her bedroom for a week, quiet and contemplating the loss of his life and therefore his work and freedom. When the seven days were up, he got up and was gone.

He only appeared two more times. The first was when he needed to consult her about isotopes. She had no idea what he was dabbling with and why he needed the information, but she sat down and worked out the equations with him anyway. The second and last time was when he had been stabbed in the side from a hitchhiking incident gone awry. Molly had to stitch him up in her own living room, with the help of Mycroft sending secret medical supplies and equipment. When she had nursed him back to health, he had fled without a word.

So when he showed up this evening in her flat, nearly ten months after she last saw him, Molly nearly dropped her cup of tea in surprise.

"Molly…" his voice was dry and he sounded tired.  
"What's hap-…Oh my god…" she exclaimed.

Before she could ask him anything, he had collapsed in a pile before her, just like he had before.

"Oh, Sherlock…" she whispered, biting her lip. She touched his forehead and he was burning up. He remained curled up on her floor, shivering from his fever.

"How did you get so sick, Sherlock?" asked Molly as she tried to get him on his feet. But when she wrapped her arms around him, he cried out, winced and curled up even tighter on the ground. Alarmed, Molly pried his arms away from their straightjacket-type grip around his chest and began to examine his torso. Immediately, she could feel his ribs were broken.

"I need to call Mycroft…"  
"No…don't…" he uttered between clenched teeth.

"Why not? You're hurt, Sherlock," Molly replied, reaching for her mobile phone.

As she began to dial the special emergency line Mycroft had given her for nights like these, Sherlock mustered what little strength he had left and knocked the phone out of her hand. As it fell with a clatter to the ground, he sank back into his fetal position, breathing hard and fast as the pain continued to ricochet through his wrecked body.

"Tell me what's happened, Sherlock…" Molly asked, keeping as calm as she could.  
"I can't," he hissed from the pain, "In fact, I shouldn't have come here. They might find you here…"  
"Well, then tell me what to do!" Molly said, raising her voice. "I can't just…let you collapse on my carpet…grimacing like that."

Just then, the pair heard fast footsteps coming from the street down below.

"They've found me…" Sherlock whispered, frustrated. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock forced himself on his feet and forced Molly into her bedroom, shoving her into her wardrobe. He then turned her room lights off and returned to the living room. By then, the footsteps had reached the flat. Sherlock could make out the sounds of Molly's lock being picked. Within seconds, the door flew open and three massive men, all decked in black, crowded around Sherlock, pinning him to the ground.

"It was very rude of you, Mr Holmes, to leave so early." came the soft, menacing voice of a slim, tall man, the fourth to enter Molly's flat. As he glided in, he stopped to look around the flat.  
"So this is where you live in London, I see," the slim man continued, "It is certainly modest, for a man so proud as yourself."

The sharp, searing pain of his broken ribs and the ache of his fever brought on by not having had his injuries addressed silenced the detective. He was ebbing away, so much so that he could barely draw a breath to respond.

"What? Not a word from a man so eloquent as yourself?" asked the fourth man as he circled Sherlock's frame that stayed planted on the ground. He stooped down and lowered his head to catch Sherlock's eye.

"You will pay for what you have done. Nobody questions our monarchy. And_nobody_ steals from it either."  
"Yours is no monarchy." Sherlock forced the words out vehemently.

The man laughed as he got up and resumed his vulture-like circle around Sherlock. His face then switched to a cold-blooded glare as he bent to grab Sherlock's hair, yanking his face up to face him.

"Call us whatever you want, Mr Holmes. But _nobody_, and I mean, _nobody _steals from the Morgenstern family."  
"Returning things to their rightful owners…" Sherlock said between laboured breaths, "…does not constitute stealing, Lord Koertig. It would…do you well to know…who you work for…"

"You insult me, Mr Holmes." Lord Koertig remarked, giving a sharp kick to Sherlock in the face. "And you insult the Morgensterns. I should have you killed for such insolence towards such an illustrious family…"  
"The Morgenstern conspiracies…" Sherlock choked, "…they will be exposed one day."  
"You really have steel for nerves, haven't you, Mr Holmes?"

The three burly men kept Sherlock firmly with his face to the ground. Sherlock's feeble struggles were certainly no match for the large leather shoes that pressed on his joints. Lord Koertig then pulled out a silver revolver and began to polish it with his handkerchief.

"I admire brave men, men with nerves that never break, nerves like _yours_, Mr Holmes," said the lanky Lord Koertig, "But tonight, your nerves and your wit…are in our way."

Brandishing the revolver, he aimed it right at Sherlock's head. Sherlock was no stranger to facing death. With a final exhale, he shut his eyes and waited for the bang, the blood and the eventual blackness.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes…" said Lord Koertig with a smirk, his fingers on the trigger.

"Put the gun down, Erik," commanded the firm, authoritative voice that no one had expected.  
"Get back inside, Molly!" Sherlock bellowed, only to receive a sharp blow to the head by one of the three assailants.

Molly stepped slowly towards Lord Koertig, completely ignoring Sherlock's plea for her safety.

"You would do well to put the gun down, Erik." Molly repeated.  
"Who are you, that you should have the right to call me by my first name?"  
"You don't recognise me, Uncle Erik?"

Molly then began to sing softly. Out of her mouth flowed a beautiful German lullaby, a lullaby that her mother had sung to her every night before bed until she died one fateful evening when Molly turned ten.

"How do you know this tune?" asked Lord Koertig, his eyes wide in horror.

Molly continued to sing, her eyes gleaming as she walked towards Lord Koertig, who looked like all the blood had drained from his face.

"You would sing this to me too, sometimes, especially after mother died." whispered Molly, as she reached for Lord Koertig's trembling hands. Removing the revolver, she held one of his hands and looked deep into his terrified, green eyes.

"Mary…our sweet little princess, Mary-Kathryn…" he said, reaching to touch her face, "You were…dead…"  
"I had to die, Uncle Erik. I could not…be an heiress to such cruelty."  
"But your grandpa…he loved you. And _I_ loved you, as though you were my own…"  
"He killed my mother because she resisted him. He would have killed me in time." she answered gravely.  
"No, he wouldn't, I know he wouldn't have…"  
"Why are you still doing this, Erik?" Molly asked gently. "Is grandpa still…doing what he does?"  
"Yes…"  
"And why are you still with him?"  
"I was promised to him as a young man. My allegiance will not change."  
"And what about Uncle Alexandre? Is he…"  
"Yes. He swore to fight your grandfather with all that he had. He is a good man, your uncle." Lord Koertig replied with a sigh. "It was your uncle that called on Mr Holmes while he sought refuge in Germany. That's how this all began."

"I see." Molly answered. Sadness slowly filled her, but she took a deep breath, willing it away. She turned to face the three men who held Sherlock.

"Let him go," she said.

The three men eyed Molly warily before glancing over to Lord Koertig, unsure of what to do.

"You will do as Lady Morgenstern says…" replied Lord Koertig.

The three men released Sherlock, getting him onto his feet and threw him onto her sofa. Sherlock coughed and gasped for air as he blinked furiously, trying to maintain consciousness and stay ahead of all that had transpired before him.

"Molly, what is going –…"  
"Not now, Sherlock…" she answered.

With Lord Koertig's hand still in her own, she brought it to her lips and kissed it.

"You took such good care of me, Uncle Erik. I have missed you." she said, looking up at him endearingly.  
"You…were…dead…." Lord Koertig said, his voice trembling as tears fell from his green eyes.  
"And I still am." she answered softly, "My name is Molly. Molly Hooper."  
"What will we do now?" he asked, as his sad eyes rested affectionately on the girl he helped bring up.  
"You will leave Mr Holmes with me, and you will leave as though you never found Mr Holmes." she answered firmly.  
"But your grandpa…"  
"Do this for me, Uncle Erik," Molly pleaded, "For me…"

Lord Koertig looked long and hard at Molly, studying what a fine and beautiful lady she had grown up to be. He smiled gently at her as he reached to stroke her cheek again. Molly reached up for his hand and pressed it close to her face, returning his smile with one of her own.

"For you, Mary," he said softly, "Because now I know you are alive."  
"This is our secret, Uncle Erik. Please…"  
"Yes, Mary. I understand."

With a snap of his fingers, the three burly assailants exited the flat.

"You have always had a beautiful heart, Mary," Lord Koertig said, "And that is worth betraying your grandfather for."

With that, he planted a kiss on Molly's cheek and swiftly exited the flat too.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed, running to the sofa. "Your head is bleeding…"

Despite the streaks of blood that continued to trickle down his face, Sherlock managed to smile proudly at his pathologist, reaching to take her hand in his.

"So you're the niece Alexandre was telling me about." Sherlock began, "the one whose death never made sense."  
"Yes…" Molly answered, "but that is a story for another time. We need to get you cleaned up. Please…won't you let me call Mycroft? Please…."  
"Why aren't you this authoritative normally? Like when you talk to people?" asked Sherlock, grimacing slightly as he tried to sit straight, still holding on to her hand.  
"Sherlock…I-I told you, not…now…"  
"But you were…No, you _are _a…"  
"Sherlock Holmes! Be quiet or I will throw you out of the window." Molly exclaimed, snatching her hand back angrily.

With a smirk, Sherlock placed his index finger in front of his lips and kept quiet as Molly frantically called Sherlock's brother. When she was done and had the help and supplies needed on their way, she leaned back into the sofa next to Sherlock and sighed.

"You know, I think you're actually more powerful than Mycroft," said Sherlock, straining to get up and turning to face her.  
"My name is Molly Hooper, and I am a pathologist at St Bart's. I am in no way more powerful than…"  
"I think it's…rather compelling, your story." said Sherlock, reaching for her hand as he began playing with her fingers.  
"Why are you touching me…like that…" she asked, glancing at him warily.

Sherlock smiled as he brought his face a little nearer to hers.

"I was once told that every fairy tale needed a good old-fashioned villain…" said Sherlock.  
"What is that supposed to mean?" Molly asked.  
"And I think that is an incomplete description of fairy tales," Sherlock answered, "Ah…ouch…"  
"You okay?"  
"Yes, it's just hard to breathe with broken ribs but the point I am making, Molly…"  
"I'm listening."  
"A fairy tale is not just about a brilliant villain or a brilliant hero."  
"I am trying to follow…but I don't see what you're getting at."  
A fairy tale is far better," whispered Sherlock, "When there's something beautiful to fight for."

Despite the fact that the corner of his lip was cut and bleeding, Sherlock leaned towards Molly and gave her a swift kiss.

"People like you, people with hearts like yours, that's what makes your uncle Alexandre's work worthwhile. It's what makes _my _work worthwhile, Molly."

Molly merely blinked and stared at Sherlock, a little flabbergasted by his unusual display of emotion.

"You must have hit your head really hard…" Molly said, as she gently wiped the drops of blood away from his mouth.

"But thank you, Sherlock," she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him.

"Now, while we wait for my brother's secret medical contingent to arrive, sing me that lullaby again." Sherlock remarked as he sank back into the sofa, "I imagine it would sound lovely on the violin."

**End**


End file.
